


Ignorant hard-working bastard

by elenatria



Series: Valoris [2]
Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Boris' POV, Dirty Thoughts, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Secret Admirer, Slow Burn, Valery's POV, Valoris, episode AU, episode breakdown, fantasies, ignorant Valery, kolya - Freeform, nikolai ryzhkov - Freeform, scenes in-between the scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-06-29 06:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19824418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenatria/pseuds/elenatria
Summary: Based on an anon prompt on tumblr:"Imagine Boris taking time to study Valery's face, finding all of his freckles and spots incredibly cute and using his ability to maintain that cold expression to his advantage in order to check Valery out without him noticing anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps that's what Boris has been doing this entire time."





	1. Virginity.

Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina rarely allowed his busy mind to drift when he was concentrating on the task at hand. Millions of lives depended on his work, his tireless determination, his hard decisions. The poisonous cloud over their heads served as a constant reminder of the responsibility weighing down on him, nevertheless he never let himself get distracted by the seeming futility of it all. With each passing day he would come to realize that, for all the reassurances and resources he had at his disposal, the Party had little concern for the liquidators, for the scientists, for himself.

He knew how expendable he was just as he knew there was no other way. He should be traveling to Kiev for treatment every month, every week, but he was aware that no one could replace him during his absence. The Party had made sure they had sent there the one man who could do the work. The _only_ man.

But he was only human; when the day seemed longer than usual his tired eyes would wander around the trailer looking for solace in the next bottle of vodka waiting to be emptied, or someone to yell at, some incompetent fool unable to fill a sack with sand, or an inanimate object with great potential for relieving his nerves if properly smashed against the wall; he was never allowed to break cutlery at home so maybe this was his chance to accomplish his dream of giving symbols of modern life the fate they deserved.

The bottle was still there but even after a day’s hard work he was too exhausted to even contemplate getting off his chair for a shot of alcohol. If he had a choice his eyes would rest forever on the one thing he had been obsessed with ever since he had landed on that doomed piece of land.

The _Scientist._

It was like an itch, the need to sneak glances at the red-haired man with the greying temples while he was working, oblivious to his environment and the Ukrainian’s need to feed certain forbidden fantasies, to ultimately find the silver lining of all this mess.

What an oddly thrilling sight Legasov was with his broad forehead, glasses bigger than his face and restless sapphire eyes behind them, wide with anxiety or squinty and resigned when the workload was more than his fragile shoulders could bear. 

He looked so pale under the horrible white light of the generator, so isolated, Boris caught himself thinking.

The deputy minister had learned the procedure by heart: Legasov would rub his numb knuckles one by one before removing the thick glasses to squeeze his eyes shut or to wipe his sweat with the back of his hand. Sometimes he would massage his own neck with those tiny wrinkled fingers of his in a futile attempt to get rid of the strain of giving instructions to workers and soldiers all day long.

Valery was spending too much time leaning over maps and notes that seemed to have no end, to the point that Boris was tempted to throw those notes to the fire if he didn’t know they were essential to their work. Besides Legasov would probably replace them in an instant.

_Valery. You ignorant hard-working bastard._

He realized then he had just called him by his name for the first time; it was only a thought buried under a cold expressionless face but it made him blush nonetheless. As if Legasov heard him he lifted his head to gaze at him absent-mindedly, eyes bleary and distracted, before sinking back to his notes while his short delicate fingers dug into his own shoulder. A twitch of pain and discomfort formed on his lips and furrowed brow.

Boris felt his muscles tense like a sprinter waiting for the shot. He would have sprung to his feet had Valery asked for assistance, a pair of helping hands to massage his aching shoulder blades, his rigid nape, his spine. He didn’t know when it started, when he first craved to touch him, but he was _begging_ to hear that question.

_“Boris, could you--?”_

God knows he would ask for nothing more; an unfinished sentence, a thin finger pointing at the neck he longed to feel. The nape he would gladly breathe heavily on.

Still, the question never came. It was too much to ask, Legasov didn’t seem to be a man who yearned to be touched, least of all by his new colleague, the Party Man. Boris knew they had started off on the wrong foot and was cursing himself for being so brisk when they first met, when they first talked on the phone. He could never imagine _liking_ the man, longing to rid him of his graceless fatigues, still him on his lap with firm sweaty hands as he kneaded into his soft flesh, as he sank himself deep into him, into his core, into his welcoming heat.

_The desperate noises he would make with each thrust --_

The more Legasov was unaware of Boris’ attention the more his freckled skin seemed to be inviting his reverie. It was uneven, full of scars, pockmarked – maybe an illness when he was a child, maybe badly treated acne. Neglect. Shame. Name-calling. All the things Boris would gladly protect him from if he could, if he was there when Valery was a boy.

But Legasov wasn’t a boy, not anymore. His prominent decisive jaw made a fine contrast with his fragility whereas his childlike dimples were hinting at the generosity of a rare smile, a gift reserved for the select few perhaps, for better, sunnier days. Boris wished their working conditions had been more forgiving and found himself longing for that smile, imagining the thin lips curving upwards, the dimples deepening with happiness – because of him.

Oh what a sight that would be.

Boris must have had a funny dreamy look on his face when Valery looked up from his notes and glanced back at him, blinking. It was too late to avert his gaze so he just kept staring at the scientist, hoping his happy filthy thoughts hadn’t reached his lips. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look anywhere else but straight ahead of him, didn’t stop peering at the man across the trailer in the olive overall.

Normally one of them would have to say something, start a conversation, break the ice. However Valery didn’t speak, didn’t smile.

Valery never smiled.

It took Boris a few seconds to realize he had to smile for both of them.

So he did.

Valery’s eyes shifted around the room. He looked down, seeking refuge in his notes.

Boris’ lip twitched into a satisfied smirk as he watched the esteemed First Deputy Director of the Kurchatov Institude blush like a bride.

_I wonder if he’s ever had a man before. If anyone had him. If anyone tossed him over a desk and roughly, sweetly fucked into him, jealous of his grades and his virginity._

How unfair to the world and to the scientist before him, but how fortunate for Boris if Valery was still a virgin.

Look at him now, hiding behind his notes like a schoolgirl.

Legasov cleared his throat as he bent over his nervous hands and the abandoned ashtray between them to the point where Boris could only see the top of his head.

Perhaps a red flush was already creeping up Valery’s neck, spreading all over his cheeks.

But Boris couldn’t tell.


	2. The pied piper.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The way Valery looks at Boris as he’s giving the speech to the divers.

“You’ll do it because it must be done.”

Valery thought he should be used to talking in front of an audience by now; flocks of young students with their inquisitive minds and their complicated questions, the occasional insolent remarks, even rude impatient colleagues – those were easy to deal with. He knew how to handle people like himself, people aspiring _to be_ him. He knew their names and résumés, he knew how their minds worked. But plain plant workers with plain questions? No, those were tough. He didn’t need the stress of unfamiliarity, not now, he had to go back to work urgently. But work - how? Not without the help of those strangers, those divers, those walking ashes. And convincing them to commit suicide through an unprepared speech? Definitely not his area of expertise.

When shifting his gaze from their doubtful stares to the blueprint on the board, he would take shallow breaths as the straight lines and the rustling of paper were the only things in the Polissya Hotel’s banquet room that reminded him of his life back in Moscow. Like a desperate student peeking through the window at a chirping sparrow while taking a difficult math test, the blueprint was his only link to familiarity, peace, sanity. As soon as he took his eyes from that piece of paper he’d have to face a room full of unimpressed faces. He spoke loudly, with vivid gestures, trying to convince everyone that he was a very confident professor with decades of experience.

But he wasn’t, not anymore.

And they knew.

He turned to Shcherbina like he had done two days ago, a lifetime ago, when their helicopter landed on the Chernobyl base camp. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this. He wasn’t supposed to be asking for help, not from a clueless politician, what did he know?

Shcherbina was too lost in thought anyway, incapable of offering any help, incapacitated. Valery knew he shouldn’t have told him the truth but it was too late now, he was alone in a room of twenty reluctant men and his arguments were failing one after the other. His useless beads and mirrors.

Until the Ukrainian stepped in. His bulk alone should be enough to push anyone into action _,_ Valery pondered as he watched him rise from his chair like a tired Atlas shaking off the dust from his shoulders. Those toughened workers should have seen enough in their lives to not be awed or intimidated by towering figures of authority but apparently it wasn’t Shcherbina’s status that spoke straight to their hearts.

It was his voice.

Deep and raspy and determined.

He was addressing their sense of duty and unity, telling them how needed they were. How essential. What great heroes they’d make. What kind of sacrifice they were capable of.

The Deputy Secretary was speaking directly to the blood in their veins.

It was a challenge for them and Boris – yes, _Boris_ – knew how to talk to the crowds. It was his talent. It was what he was there for.

_Ananenko._

_Bezpalov._

_Baranov._

Three men. Three were enough, more than enough. Had to be.

And it was Boris who made that happen.

_Boris._

Valery knew the word sounded much better in his mind than when spitting it out like a crude warning or a cry for help. He didn’t realize back then how out of place, how unceremonious he sounded addressing the Deputy Secretary by his first name in front of those soldiers, a total stranger, a close friend of Gorbachev himself. How unforgivably inappropriate.

But for all his ironed suits and expensive shoes, his perfectly groomed hair and silver button cuffs Boris was just Boris to him. From day one. Valery didn’t know why he felt that eerie sense of intimacy but somehow his safe space wasn’t the blueprint anymore, or the sparrow outside the window. It wasn’t Moscow or the Institute. It was the stranger in the ironed suit standing next to him, the man who had just convinced three souls to swim to their deaths.

It was the power in him.

The confidence.

Valery didn’t know if it was that sense of shared triumph that gave him a tickling down his throat, or the radiation.

He almost smiled.

And then, as if waking from a trance, he squeezed his lips tight to smother any traits of joy - he wasn’t prepared for this, they hadn’t won yet - even if he couldn’t help turning to the cause of that smile.

Boris was almost smiling too. Boris was looking back at him.

Valery felt the air freeze in his lungs.

 _We’re in this together, we always were._ _We were meant for this._

Were those Boris' thoughts as well or was Valery just projecting?

He would never know. He would never tell Boris. He would never dare.

As Valery sank back into his chair, traitorous colour rising behind his glasses, he lifted his notes just enough to hide the sweat beading on his forehead. Boris’ unexpected smile from across the trailer had reminded him of the first time he realized how much he admired him - that glorious speech in the hotel banquet room. Valery didn’t know back then just how _much_ he craved Boris’ attention, he was just staring in awe as the three men rose one after the other like lambs volunteering to be slaughtered, mesmerized by the thought of sacrifice and greatness, following the silver-haired pied piper to wherever he would take them.

 _If he’s to be my doom, so be it,_ Valery thought idly as he followed Boris out of the banquet room, entranced.

In that trailer he wasn’t listening to imaginary pipes anymore; he was working, no, he was glaring at the ashtray between his numb fingers, sweating, breathing, wondering if Boris was still looking, still smiling. Maybe it was better not to know, maybe he could stay safe within that ashtray or the pied piper would take him with him, never to return.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t dare.


	3. Yellow curtains.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boris likes change.  
> Valery needs a new set of clothes.

“I hate yellow curtains.”

“What?”

Valery didn’t register Boris’ cause of annoyance at first. He was peering through the hotel window at a couple of girls in blue uniforms and white aprons, massaging the bridge of his nose as if to get rid of a headache that he seemed to have since morning, every morning, the ghost of a sensation that was too dull and vague to be considered pain. Maybe it was just the tension from the two sleepless nights he had already spent in Pripyat, maybe it was the radioactive air getting the best of him already.

Maybe it was the fact that they had just sentenced three men to death.

How could he stay there for days, weeks, and complete the enormous task of containing a disaster worse than Pompeii and Hiroshima put together if his body couldn’t take the pressure? If his spirit could be easily crushed by the fates of three people he didn’t even know?

“I said I hate yellow curtains,” Boris rasped bringing him back. “They remind me of piss.”

Valery stifled a chuckle shaking his head. “Maybe you should have them changed,” he proposed under his breath. “Then again, you’d have to change everything in here, the wardrobe, the sofa, the _walls,_ the phone--"

“The phone is orange,” Boris corrected him briskly. “You know what, perhaps I _should_ have the goddamn curtains changed.”

He picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Yes. Shcherbina here. Give me my assistant, Stepanov.” He drummed his fingers on his knee and let the handset rest on his shoulder leisurely scanning the room for every last bit of imperfection before inspecting Valery’s form from head to toe. His eyes lingered on the scientist a bit longer than usual, causing him to shift his weight from one leg to the other with growing discomfort.

“Yes, Yevgeny,” Boris greeted his assistant clearing his throat.

Valery let out a sharp breath when the deputy chairman’s eyes finally focused on something that wasn’t his awkward flabby frame. 

“Bring in a new set of curtains, _anything_ but yellow,” Boris ordered. “Yes. Petrol, petrol sounds fine. No, I don’t need to ask the hotel manager for permission,” he snarled, “tell him I can’t sleep with those curtains. And, Yevgeny, go buy some shirts and ties. I don’t know, medium size…?” He glanced at Valery once more, his eyes pausing where the shirt buttons strained over the academician’s belly. Valery sensed the silent judgement and crossed his hands over his stomach, embarrassed.

“And briefs…” Boris continued on the phone, his voice huskier than usual, without taking his eyes off Valery as they glided just a little under the belt line. “And suits. Yes, navy blue, brings out the eye colour. No, not _my_ eye colour, you idiot, I already brought my own suits. I came prepared for this trip and I certainly do not wear medium size, are you blind? No, we don’t have time to find a seamstress, bring in whatever you find. Just don’t buy any cheap ones, we’re not dressing up labourers here.”

Boris’ mouth slacked open mid-sentence and closed again as he pursed his lips in irritation. “N--. Never mind who they’re for, all you need to know is that they must be here by noon. Is that understood? _Perfect,_ you still have a job.”

He hung up without a word of goodbye and let his heavy hands fall on the arms of the chair. As he turned to Valery his eyes grew softer. Oddly enough, he wasn’t the bossy statesman anymore.

“See how easy that was?” he bragged with a content smirk, “petrol curtains. Better for blocking out the sun.”

Valery’s brain had stopped functioning the moment he realized Boris wasn’t buying clothes for himself. The Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers had just decided to redecorate his hotel room and worst of all, he had ordered _him_ a whole wardrobe of clothes. Clothes he hadn’t even asked for.

“How did you know I didn’t bring any clothes?” the scientist muttered as his glasses fogged up.

“You’ve been wearing the same suit for two days now and your collar is getting yellow around your neck,” Boris observed sitting up and made a semi-circular gesture, mimicking the roundness of Valery’s collarbone. “I’d suggest you take a bath – in your clothes preferably – but it would do nothing to remove your sweat, your shirt is too white. You should buy some beige shirts instead.”

Valery lowered his head. “Beige makes me look pale…”

Boris stopped and stared at him as if he was teaching the State Anthem of the Soviet Union to little green men. His chest bubbled up in a burst of laughter. _“Anything_ makes you look pale,” he teased. “You’re the palest person I’ve ever met.” 

Valery shook his head and turned to the window again.

His disappointment didn’t get lost on Boris who stopped laughing, stood on his feet and strode toward him. He rose a strong hand to cup his shoulder but Valery stopped him in his tracks with a curt side glance.

_Don’t._

Boris let his hand hang limply on his side.

“Pale is—” he stuttered searching for the right word. “Pale is beautiful, _”_ he rose his hands in the air arching his brows like a child begging for approval.

Valery scoffed and shook his head. “Don’t try to save it...”

Boris’ eager smile faded away as he searched Valery’s face. Still, he didn’t seem disappointed; he didn’t have the look of a man who was used to giving up.

“Gingers are so pale, even paler than blondes like me,” he explained.

“You’re a blonde?” Valery raised a brow trying not to sound too curious.

Boris brushed a hand through his grey hair. “I used to be,” he said cockily. “There are patches on me that are still blonde, patches not… open to public view,” he whispered in a playful conspiratorial tone. 

_The audacity._

The corner of Valery’s lip slowly crooked into a grin.

He wasn’t going to honour Boris with a full-blown smile. No. He hadn’t earned it yet.

Boris’ gaze travelled from Valery’s blue eyes to the freckles peppering his upper lip to the greying temples under his glasses. “I… haven’t met enough gingers in my life,” he apologized as his eyes rested on Valery’s mouth. “Didn’t mean to treat you like an extra-terrestrial.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Valery reassured him and sighed. “I guess I’m not used to people observing me and… buying me clothes. I mean… thank you, you didn’t have to—”

Boris shrugged indifferently. “Don’t thank me yet – those shirts I ordered, they’re probably not going to be beige.”

Valery let out a timid chuckle staring at his shoes as the faintest shade of pink rose up his cheeks. He was feeling too exposed, too naked to come up with anything sufficiently witty.

Maybe it was useless to hide from that man.

A hesitant but triumphant smile rose on Boris’ lips.

He took a step closer to his new friend and pointed at his blushing cheeks.

“See?” he nodded, his voice full of warmth, the kind that Valery hadn’t experienced before. “You’re not that pale anymore.”


	4. The hat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Boris thinks Valery is ridiculously cute with his military hat.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, they weren’t supposed to be fighting. Boris had just bought him clothes, hadn’t he?

The politician never indulged anyone with such grand gestures, his generosity was reserved for the select few, and one didn’t just buy clothes for a friend unless it meant something.

Apparently Legasov was unaware of those tactics. He was a clueless bookworm who had spent half a lifetime in a lab, studying the world through a microscope, unable to see beyond his lens, beyond his nose. He was someone who had forgotten what a present was, what _friendship_ was. To him chemical reactions were easier to fathom than a navy-blue costume waiting on his bed as he came out of the steaming bathroom with a towel around his neck.

And of course, they were back to calling each other “comrade”, back to using surnames again.

Boris didn’t care about that anymore, no one had disrespected him like this in his entire life and if they did, they never got away with it. And now there he was, having to apologize to The Nerd.

_You shouldn’t be talking to me like that._

_You do not know me._

_You should also be wearing that goddamn gas mask, not let it hang around your neck. How do you expect people to follow your example if you’re not-- If you’re not… protecting yourself? How do you expect people to believe you?_

At least Legasov was wearing the blue turtleneck Yevgeny had left in his hotel room that morning, and oh, Boris was right. It _did_ complement his eyes.

 _Not Legasov, Valery,_ he corrected himself, _I don’t care if he’s an asshole, he’s still Valery._

_My--_

Valery’s nostrils were flaring, his eyes flaming with wrath, his mouth a tight slit spitting abuse; ignorant as usual, unable to see past a pair of knitted brows and Boris’ icy glare.

“I _am_ a career party man.”

Valery froze.

_Damn._

Boris wasn’t planning on using his hurt to disarm him.

_Hurt? I’m not hurt._

_Idiots cannot hurt me, idiots answer to the KGB and when they dare contradict me or Gorbachev they might as well hand in their Party card. Idiots don’t live long enough to see me lose the argument._

But idiots didn’t know when they were hurting someone.

Valery knew.

The scientist blinked and averted his eyes, resigned.

_He’s ashamed. Good._

But it felt strange, it felt wrong. For the first time in his life Boris wasn’t enjoying his opponent’s humiliation. His stomach tightened as he noticed that shameful freckled pout turning Valery’s indignation into regret. How could that man be an annoying teacher one moment and a defenseless little boy the next?

And that ridiculous hat, barely protecting his broad forehead—

Boris had been suppressing that thought since morning, ever since he saw Valery appear in the hotel lobby in that outfit.

His blood was boiling now.

It all felt wrong.

No one should look so delectable in khakis, least of all a scientist. Valery should be banned from wearing any kind of military clothing; with the glasses and sensitive peppered skin and those clothes he seemed ready to be ravished, eager to be split in half.

 _Begging_ for it.

Boris pictured him on the workbench he was leaning over minutes before as he studied the evacuation map. He pictured the soft roundness of him underneath those baggy khakis finally exposed to the air, to his hungry eyes, to his wandering fingers. That submissive pink flesh, tamed, giving way to his impatience, to his firm authority.

_He would groan like an animal entering him, oh he would--_

Taking it all in, every impossibly swollen, hardened, leaking inch.

_Oh--_

He would force him to take him whole if he could. Never mind his screams, Valery could scream his lungs out for all he cared. Hold him down, wreck him, work his way into his impossible tightness – because he was tight, he should be, never had anyone - until they both saw white and came among cries and gasps and whimpers, until Valery was spilling hot thick strings in his own hand.

Oh-

push him down and-

_you don’t give orders around here, I do, you don’t—_

_oh fu—_

_oh fuck._

“Comrades.”

It was Pikalov and his urgent announcement that dissolved Boris’ thoughts of having his way with the man standing next to him, the bespectacled academician who had spent the last five minutes seething with frustration, blissfully unaware.

Boris straightened his back, filled his lungs with air. That was not the time, besides Valery hated his guts.

Valery would never see beyond the career party man, the apparatchik. 

Valery was measuring him, ready to prove him wrong, to crush him with more bad news.

“The meltdown has begun.”

Boris knew, Valery would never be his. He had only one mistress and her name was Science.

That fucking _bitch._


	5. Cigarettes for breakfast.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: All Boris wanted was to make Valera smile.

Boris glanced at his weary reflection as the razor gathered foam along his jawline.

_We haven't talked in days._

His mind, still numb from a dreamless sleep, slowly drifted into that harsh realization just as the sun rose above the abandoned apartment blocks of Pripyat. 

There was no talking between them anymore, not if it wasn’t absolutely necessary like going through medical reports and readings on isotope emissions. Boris caught Valery puffing nervously at his smokes, squishing one cigarette butt after the other while a soldier handed him a large folder, probably an X-ray. Boris didn’t know whose X-ray that was or where it came from but it certainly wasn’t Valery’s – he hadn’t gone to Kiev for treatment in weeks. The Ukrainian noticed the furrowed brow under his colleague’s thick glasses, the anticipated horror in his slack jaw, but he didn’t dare ask questions - Valery made sure to instantly wrap the folder under his arm and walk on as if nothing had happened, like a man fearing the judgement of a million stares.

_You work too hard, Valery._

He wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion anyway. As a matter of fact, Valery didn’t appreciate any approach that dared touch on anything more than procedural matters. He’d rather spend his mornings fiddling with his silver lighter as he sank into his own private pit of despair, sucking in clouds of smoke until the cigarette scorched his fingers and the ash burned holes through the sheets of his bunk, than show his face in the hotel’s coffee shop and share a cup of tea and scrambled eggs with the politician.

All of Boris’ attempts to make amends for the past few weeks had failed miserably. Valery wouldn’t answer the phone if it wasn’t absolutely urgent, he would deny any offer to have a glass of vodka with him and night time walks were strictly out of the question. Valery claimed he didn’t want to breathe in any more radioactive dust than was necessary but that was an unashamed lie. He could spare a half hour with Boris if he really wanted to because—

Because he was a goddamn scientist, that’s why. Because he knew very well that avoiding exposure for a few minutes wouldn’t make any difference.

Because he _knew,_ yet he pretended he actually cared about himself.

_You miserable liar._

Boris sensed he was being punished - but for what, he didn’t know.

Probably for being a statesman, he reckoned. For doing his job. For obeying orders.

For caring.

Things were bound to change when Major General Tarakanov arrived at the exclusion zone. Boris had Stepanov call Valery in his room – somehow that impossible nerd could sense when Boris himself was making the call and never picked up the phone. Yegveny said that professor Legasov couldn’t meet him at the coffee shop or the lobby.

“Tell him I’ll meet him there.”

Boris gnashed his teeth.

_Fine._

It was awkward. They had to share the same trailer, the same desk, the same smell of stale air. Not that this wasn’t their daily procedure week after exhausting week since they got there but after their serious quarrel on how many kilometers the exclusion zone should be, they avoided spending too much time alone. There usually were soldiers, workers or other scientists around them but that morning Valery was too agitated to think of shielding himself properly behind people. It was just the two of them again going through maps, aerial photos and empty packs of Sochinskiye cigarettes.

Boris recalled the promise he had made himself as he wiped the razor on his towel that morning; to not let his eyes linger on Valery’s pallid features more than necessary, to refrain from counting every freckle, every dimple, every scar. He had promised to not picture his own lips gliding purposely, hungrily over each curve and crevice, drinking in Valery’s smothered pants, searching, probing, violating the sweetness of him with his tongue each time the redheaded man, deprived of all clothes, rank and dignity, parted his lips for a gasp of air.

_B-Boris_

_oh_

He knew he could fuck him breathless just to feel the air leave his lungs in whimpers and obscene, unrestrained cries of relief.

What are you—

uh

_you fuck me so well, you fuck—_

_AH_

Enough.

_Enough._

Boris shut his eyes. He didn’t need this anymore. He didn’t need _him._

He had promised to not miss another heartbeat anticipating a glint of joy in Valery’s eyes if he ever brought him good news again. Valery didn’t smile when the divers came back triumphant. He didn’t smile when the fire was out. He wouldn’t smile now.

Boris was done hoping, and he was done smiling for both of them. How could he make a man happy, a man who had forgotten what a smile was?

Valery’s fingers were almost shaking as he arranged the reports and photos on stacks and Boris knew he was looking for more than order on that chaotic desk before the general arrived.

He was after his pack. _Any_ pack. One more cigarette. A single smoke would be enough.

Valery was on the brink of a panic attack; he was frantically patting on his chest and hips, every pocket on his body, kneeling under the dusty table, dragging open drawers and emptying them on the floor. Boris winced and tried to focus instead on the map on the wall as Valery started muttering, cursing through his teeth for a goddamn cigarette, fiery red hair in disarray, sweat dripping endlessly on notes and sketches on the desk.

_Look at him. He can’t._

_You can’t—_

_Don’t give up on him. Not yet._

Another violent banging of the drawers; Valery rose and turned on his heel avoiding Boris’ puzzled stare as he dragged trembling fingers through his loose strands - but Boris wasn’t looking anymore. He jerked slightly toward the desk. Maybe—

Maybe he saw something there, something Valery hadn’t seen, a trace of glossy red with white stars on it.

 _So there you are._ _Thank_ _God._

Sochinskiye. Such a fuss over such a tiny little thing.

He heaved a deep sigh and pushed away the ruler and stack of photocopies to reveal the lost treasure underneath. He held up the half-empty pack, glaring at Valery.

“Here…” he rasped tossing that useless bundle of dried leaves, tar and paper at him. “Your candy. Don’t cry anymore, it breaks my heart.”

The scientist grabbed the precious find mid-air just as it was about to bounce on his nose. He let out one long exhale and straightened the hair on his sweaty forehead, giving Boris the briefest of smiles before he started searching his pocket for a lighter. Or maybe he was smiling at the few smokes he had found in that pack. His sole source of happiness.

“Thanks…” he breathed.

“Is that all it takes to make you smile?” Boris wondered bitterly and peered through the window as Major General Tarakanov’s jeep halted in front of their trailer.

Maybe I should get you a whole carton then.


	6. Every smile in the dark.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: On ep 4, the tent is dimly lit. It’s difficult to see clearly but Boris sees Valery's smile. How long has he been watching every raise & drop of eyebrows, every single facial expression?

_Truce?_

Maybe.

Somehow, they had gone back to exchanging glances, back to searching each other’s faces for answers when there were none, back to the comfort of silent complicity.

Maybe that half-empty pack of Sochinskiye held some sort of dark magic in its shrivelled black leaves. Maybe one puff was enough to soften Valery’s weary features, eyes sliding closed, lips parting voluptuously in a long sigh of relief as they released smoke and tension. He leaned back on the wall and tilted his chin up lazily like a man well-fucked, like someone who cherished every last drop of life on his tongue even if what he was truly after was to lose himself in a deadly peace.

_Choose life, Valery. For God’s sake._

Boris shook his head watching the work-obsessed man of science succumb to his trite addiction. He was tempted to spit out the commonest of warnings, “that thing will kill you”, but the bitter acknowledgement hit him hard; Valery was too exceptional, too self-destructive to seek an ordinary death – and too obsessed to choose life.

When Valery’s eyes flickered open again, little blue flames burning through half-closed lids, wet lips puckering around a ghostly mist of smoke, they focused on Boris, only on Boris. He was his saviour after all - and the only man in the room.

_You’re taking care of me, aren’t you._

Boris felt to his core the tension and the gratitude - he sensed it on Valery’s fingers as they caught a leaf from the tip of his slick tongue, eyes relentlessly fixed on his.

Boris glared back.

_Don’t do this to me._

_Don’t fucking do this to me._

The sound of screeching brakes saved him from Valery’s beckoning stare. He peered through the window. “The general is here.”

When he turned his eyes back to the room Valery wasn’t looking anymore.

He could breathe again.

It was Tarakanov’s idea and Boris’ calls to the right people that brought the Lunokhod STR-1 to the Zone. An enormous thing, an expensive toy with huge clumsy tires. Remote-controlled. Perfect for the job.

But Boris wasn’t smiling yet.

What if it didn’t work? What if their calculations were wrong and the radiation tore the circuits apart? How would that make him look to the general, to the operators?

_To Valery?_

He had spent so much time on the phone yelling at incompetent lackeys and sweet-talking their superiors, people he despised, people he needed. So many of them, so many calls. He couldn’t lose now.

He pursed his lips in a stubborn pout and shoved his hands into his pockets as his eyes darted sideways to make sure no one was looking. Valery didn’t have to know how inadequate he was feeling.

The operator spoke. “Diagnostics complete. Ready to engage main power and motor.”

One more second, one last breath trapped in Boris’ chest for what seemed like an eternity and--

And it moved! That incredible piece of technology, that brilliant specimen of human resourcefulness marched forward, pushing debris. _Winning_. Defeating the atom. Cutting through despair.

_Oh God it’s happening, we did it._

Boris shook his fist in the air, happy, triumphant. Everyone was laughing and cheering and clapping – everyone but the one man standing still next to him, waiting, observing. The one man who mattered.

Should Boris look over his shoulder? He smothered the impulse. Every time they experienced a little win he would turn to Valery for reassurance just to be treated with the silent judgement of a blank face, a knitted brow, an unsatisfied scowl.

Oh he wouldn’t let the Nerd ruin that moment, not this time.

But Valery—

Valery was leaning forward in disbelief, his eyes devouring the screen, shoulders stirring as his lungs were sucking in as much air as they could. Boris could never miss those subtle changes, not even in the darkness of the remote command center - he had learned to read every change in his friend’s face, every twist of the lip, every wrinkle around his eyes.

 _He_ was smiling.

The bastard was smiling.

Boris turned, squinting in fake disbelief. You? Happy? How is that even possible?

Valery nodded lowering his gaze. It was too late to hide - even in the dark Boris could discern the flushing, the freckled cheeks folding in childlike dimples of joy.

_You prick._

_You made me wait for so long. So - long._

Boris spread his arms, grabbed Valery's cheeks and pulled him in a hug so rough, so tight that would make the strongest man faint. But not Valery. He seemed as if he was made for this, as if he knew all along how that hug was going to feel around his body, squeezing, engulfing him. As if his neck, his arms, his chest had been prepared to be enveloped by Boris’ overwhelming heat.

Valery adjusted his weight against the towering Ukrainian and let him hold him there, still, secure. Safe.

_So this is how it feels to hold him._

The violent flow in Boris’ veins was drowning him, the intensity of their unexpected contact reducing him to a single raw nerve; he was registering every swelling of the chest against his, every sigh brushing across his neck, every finger tracing his back, fisting his military jacket again and again and _again._ Palms clenching and unclenching all over him, pleading, wanting, looking for an answer to a simple question, looking for what was always there.

_Are you with me? Are you real?_

He could stay there forever, holding the frail bespectacled academician against his heart until the earth froze and the sun collapsed into a mass of scattered electrons, with Valery’s soft cheek resting on his shoulder as if it was its rightful place from the beginning of time.

His shoulder, his man, his territory.

Boris felt the heat rising in his lower abdomen and realized that it wasn’t just his own hidden anticipation. He was feeling for two bodies now as if his consciousness had leaked into the man nestling like a baby in his arms.

_Of course I’m with you, you idiot._

_You and I, Valery._

_You and I._


	7. Stoli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: how would Boris react if he saw Valery crying?

Boris felt the weight of the bottle in his hands.

_What do you think you’re doing, he hates vodka._

He was praying to a god that didn’t exist that he had made the right choice as he traced Stolichnaya’s red and golden letters with delicate yet eager fingers. His was a pure, reverent touch, like feeling a lace-trimmed camisole in the dark before letting his hand slip under it, drawing moans and sighs that would heighten his own pleasure.

But things were easy back then. Women knew what to expect of him and he knew how good he could be as he eased their heads on the pillow while his hand worked silently into them.

He felt sweat coming out of his pores and glanced at the label again; he had never found the fiery transparent liquid so mouth-watering before. Holding his breath he rose his bent knuckle in front of the door, wondering what would happen if he knocked. Every second he hesitated earned him new doubts, new realizations. This, he reckoned with a sigh, was indeed a night of many firsts: first time to really appreciate the intensity of Stoli burning in his mouth, first time to be aching so much for a man.

_Not just any man. Maybe that’s why you’re nervous._

He bit his lip pushing away the nagging thought that Valery wasn’t ready for this, for _him._ Valery didn’t want him. Valery had forgotten about their hug. It was very likely that he would once again deny him the pleasure of downing a bottle of vodka with him, after all they hadn’t had a sip of alcohol alone in ages.

He took a deep breath. Maybe he could talk Valery out of his stubbornness this time, hell, they had earned that little luxury after putting the lunar rover to motion that morning. Besides, for the first time in weeks they had spent the evening celebrating at the hotel restaurant with other commission members, eating beef Stroganoff, goulash and cherry piroshki. And for all his burning desire he had earnestly tried to be a good boy.

But it was Valery’s heat next to him that was forcing him to stand perfectly still, to focus on nothing but that restless knee that was casually rubbing against his thigh every time Valery got up to grab a bowl of soup or a piece of Kiev cake. He knew Valery kept his knees to himself whenever he was tense, whenever the workload was consuming him, yet there he was, a changed man, spreading his legs as if he was sitting alone, chatting with his colleagues, ignoring Boris’ weight against him. As if they had always sat that way, close to each other, sharing the same space, the same warmth.

But they hadn’t. This was new, and it was making Boris seethe under the tablecloth.

He glared at him a couple of times. Valery had spent most of the dinner chatting with Khomyuk and Site Officer Masha. He seemed relaxed, confident and once again, oblivious. Boris wasn’t used to being ignored and that was certainly not the behaviour he was expecting after the long heartfelt embrace they had shared in the remote command center. Worst of all, he was starting to despise anyone who was getting the professor’s attention, his smiles, his laughs; things that belonged to him, that were meant for him.

_How dare he._

At last Valery settled in his seat cutting a piroshki in half.

“Do you want some?” he offered turning to Boris.

The politician rolled his eyes glowering at him. “I’m full,” he growled.

Valery paused for a moment to consider the deputy chairman’s face, shrugged and turned to his dessert sucking at the cherry filling so hungrily that it spurted out of the corners of his mouth.

“Oh shit—” he mumbled dragging his finger through the red sticky substance that was sliding down his shirt.

Boris watched him idly as Valery dipped his towel in a glass of water and wiped the stain.

“Beige shirts won’t do it, it seems,” he joked, “what I need is deep red.”

“What you need…” Boris sighed sitting up and inspecting his friend’s smeared face as he tilted his chin up, “is a bib because you’re an infant, Valery. Come here.”

“H-here…” the scientist stuttered against Boris’ firm thumb that was keeping him still, raising the damp towel.

Boris’ frown slowly turned into a crooked smile as he kept his eyes fixed on Valery’s glistening mouth. “Now that would be a waste, wouldn’t it…”

He brushed a thumb over Valery’s lower lip to wipe the jam and brought the sweetness to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the fingertip. Valery’s hitched breath didn’t get lost on him; his mouth fell open as his eyes stayed glued on Boris’ mouth, entranced by the unexpected touch, mesmerized by what Boris was doing to his own finger.

Valery blinked and shook his head as if he had just woken from a dream. “I – uh…” he cleared his throat. “I need to go back to my room. Too much wine.”

Before Boris could protest that Valery hadn’t had one drop of wine all evening, the scientist jumped to his feet, straightened his tie and creased jacket and threw a clumsy apology at his colleagues. Boris huffed and dropped back into his seat watching him stumble over chairs and tables in his haste to leave the room.

Valery Legasov could honestly drive a man insane. 

Boris feared that a bottle of Stolichnaya would probably have the opposite effect of what he was after. Still, it was all he could find on that dinner table before he rushed out of the hotel restaurant and into the lobby, hitting on the buttons like a madman as if that would bring the elevator down faster.

When he reached their floor he made himself stop. Any other night he would have stormed into the room like a raging bull, pull Valery against his chest and smother any protests with his tongue until his object of desire was trembling with need and grabbing his cock, compliant, willing to offer him a fast release. For some reason that didn’t seem to be the right course of action. Valery’s departure was more than the panicked reaction of an awkward lover. There was fear in his eyes. Fear and something darker Boris couldn’t fathom.

While he stood in the corridor rethinking his plan, it wasn’t his doubts that kept him from barging into Valery’s room and forcing him to down that vodka to the last drop. It was a faint sound, like a child lost in the dark, that he hadn’t heard before, certainly not from Valery.

He curled his fingers around the knob. The door was unlocked.

“Valery?...” he whispered as he pushed the door open.

He couldn’t see anything in that room, the only source of light being the street lamps outside the window. A dark figure was sitting still in front of the glass, bending over something Boris couldn’t see, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. He felt a shiver down his spine, as if breathing was forbidden in that room, in that closed space that was meant only for smoking and sleepless nights. 

_And guilt._

The silhouette held its breath. Boris squinted in the dark trying to make out what Valery was holding in his hand. A big square piece of paper.

He instantly knew what that was: the X-ray envelope the soldier had given Valery a few days ago. 

_He’s dying,_ was the spontaneous chilling thought that crossed his mind. _He’s dying, I’m losing him._

Within a second, a million ways to say “I’m sorry” filled his head.

“Valery, what is it?...” he said leaving the bottle on the telephone table.

With a few decisive strides he reached the bundle of regret that used to be Valery Legasov, the esteemed academician, and cupped his shoulder waiting to hear news that would shutter his world to pieces.

Valery lifted his head blinking weakly at the faint light that was coming from the street lamp and making him look paler than the moon. His pockmarked cheeks were glistening with trails of tears.

“What—” Boris breathed.

Valery’s gaze remained fixed on the lamp. He rose a trembling hand and held the X-ray against the glass. It was someone’s lungs. They looked like the sky at night, a million stars spread all over it, a million bright holes.

“Do you know what this is?...” he murmured trying to stifle a sob. “They sent it from the Academy of Sciences. I asked them…” he gulped down hard, “…to send it to me. I had to see it with my own eyes.”

Boris shook his head in silence dreading Valery’s answer.

“Th-this is what sand and boron do to a man when thrown into an open nuclear reactor,” Valery stammered. “They form hot particles, burning through his lungs.” He wiped his swollen nose with the back of his hand. “Atoms of lead, sand and graphite combined and were shot high up into the atmosphere when we…” He raised his hands looking for answers that weren’t there. “They traveled with the wind over great distances, hundreds of kilometers. People, _children_ who don’t even know what a nuclear reactor is have been breathing them since day one. Since I told you to— since I told you to—to bring me…”

He started shaking as he clutched his head. “This is—this is what we did to those people, Boris, and they don’t even know,” he choked through his sobs. “Children who don’t know why they’re dying because no one explained to them why, and no one can. They’re dying because we dropped lead panels into a reactor that melted them like chocolate bars at 2,000 degrees. They’re dying because I can’t tell a cold scientific solution from a fucking death sentence. They’re dying because of—because of m—”

He pulled his glasses from his face and let them slip on the carpet. There was no strength left in him, no drive. “We were supposed to save them, Boris, not kill them, we were supposed to—to...” his voice trailed off.

“Valery don’t—”

“NO,” Valery yelped slapping his knee with newly found fervour, his tear rimmed eyes piercing through the dark like blue furnaces of despair.

He stood on shaky feet rubbing his temple as if to keep his head from splitting apart.

“Valery, there was nothing to be done,” Boris pleaded. “You were frantically looking for solutions to a catastrophe no man had ever faced before. No history, no nuclear wars, no science to guide you, you were—"

“No _science_ , what are you talking about?!…” Valery scoffed shutting his eyes. “Sand and boron, sand crystallizes with heat, it was my idea… My…” He faltered. “Oh God, Boris… Oh _God…”_

There was only so much suffering and guilt Boris could take.

He rose and pulled the devastated professor in his arms shushing him. Desperate hands were clutching at his back again like they had done earlier that morning, as if to stop him from disappearing in a cloud of smoke. He brushed his hand through Valery’s hair, squeezing him tighter whenever he felt him losing his strength, rubbing his back with long reassuring strokes, repeating the movement like a silent prayer.

_I’m here._

_I’m here._

_I’m here._

They stood there, in the middle of the dark room, for minutes that felt like hours while Valery cried like a baby, soaking Boris’ collar with tears until his violent sobbing weakened to a whimper.

“Shhhh…” Boris placed soft lips on his forehead brushing away the messy ginger strands with his nose. A vein was pulsing on his mouth fervently and he kissed it, willing it to relax under his loving pressure.

“I failed them--” Valery choked in Boris’ chest. “I failed them. I was supposed to save them, but I failed them…”

“Shhh, Valera,” Boris reassured him nuzzling into the folds of his neck. “They’re dead, and many others will follow. But you’re not. Not yet. Look around you, you’re not done with this, you’re not done with… me.”

Valery’s last sob drowned in his throat. As if waking from long days of stupor he rose to meet Boris’ blue eyes. A timid smile bloomed on the Ukrainian’s lips.

_I’m here._

_I’ve got you._

Valery blinked, an unuttered question still quivering on his lips.

“B-Boris…”

Boris knew, that was not a question. It was a plea. It was days, _months_ of waiting, doubting, anticipating.

Wanting.

With a hungry impatient sigh he responded with a kiss so fierce, so possessive, so absolute in its ferocity that Valery had barely time to suck in a gasp.

They tried to find their balance as their bodies rocked against each other, losing themselves in the moment, exchanging breaths, touches, little moans against each other’s lips. Boris panted, shocked and delighted at Valery’s boldness as he felt his mouth violated by an unexpectedly eager, hardened tongue.

_Professor Legasov, you’re not new to this, are you._

His cock stiffened at the thought of ravishing Valery right there and then just to punish him for not being a virgin for him. He reached for Valery’s fly, pleasure warming his groin as he palmed the other man’s thickness over the fabric.

He stopped and pulled back as if he had heard a noise. Valery, his lips still slick with Boris’ saliva, questioned him with his eyes.

Boris’ fears had found the wrong moment to haunt him, the very minute he was going to have this wonderful unique man to himself.

_“And our rooms, even our bathrooms.”_

Bugged.

They were being watched by a million eyes, overheard by a million ears. How could he forget.

Thankfully they hadn’t said anything inappropriate. But the passionate noises they made, the moans, the sighs…

He wanted him so badly. Have him any way he could, on the old carpet, against the hard wall, in the bathroom watching their reflections fuck like animals, fuck him like a woman, fuck him until he cried out, until his name on Valery’s half-open lips withered into an adoring whisper.

But he couldn’t jeopardize his Party card, their work, their freedom. A quick bang in a seedy hotel room wasn’t worth their lives.

He let go of the man he loved. The man he was burning for.

“Not tonight, Valery,” he muttered with regret. “Not here.”

Valery bit his lip with a disappointed nod and straightened his tie and shirt, like he always did when he was trying to find his composure. He was the respectable chemist again, a man of dignity.

Still, there was some spark left in him as he tucked his shirt in his waistband. Without raising his head he mumbled through his teeth, still bold in his shyness, like a child holding Boris to his word.

“Then when...”

Boris chuckled and let his hands drop to his sides. There it was again, the Legasovian pout, demanding the promise to be fulfilled – and soon. He clasped Valery’s head and rose it to his lips.

“Soon…” he breathed into Valery’s hair planting a soft meaningful kiss. “You’ll see.”


	8. Trip

“You cannot leave Chernobyl now, are you insane?”

Boris stilled his hand on a freshly ironed shirt on the bed. He didn’t have to turn to that raised, almost hysterical voice to know what Valery’s face looked like: eyes ablaze, nostrils flaring, chin trembling with rage.

“I’ve been summoned,” he stated plainly hoping those four words were enough explanation to the man he had been trying to seduce with a bottle of Stoli only a few nights before. “Mikhail needs to be informed, he’s putting up with so much pressure right now, from both inside and outside.”

 _“Mikhail…?”_ Valery scoffed, eyes nervously following Boris’ fingers as they rolled up ties and piled tailored suits, sparkling white briefs and vests next to his toothpaste, razor and shaving brush.

The miniscule tint of jealousy that coloured the scientist’s voice at the mention of the General Secretary's name brought a barely visible smirk on Boris’ lips as he tucked a couple of expensive jackets into the suitcase.

“You’ve been sent for too,” the politician murmured, “or didn’t you get that call? Your phone was ringing constantly this morning, where were you?”

Valery turned on his heel with a hand on his hip, rubbing his forehead furiously with the other as if trying to dig into his own scull. Boris couldn’t help but sympathize; what he had before him was a man tired of playing games, of Politburo meetings, of everything.

Valery turned back to him, a loose strand sliding down his forehead. Boris was dying to brush that wayward lock back into place just to get a taste of Valery’s hair between his fingers. “Soon” he had told him the other night to soothe him, to soothe them both, but now the need to feel him, take him, fuck him was stronger than ever. He didn’t want to leave this room, this city before Valery was his.

It was the silence that brought him back to his senses.

The silence was so thick he could hear his own watch ticking: there was no time for daydreaming. He averted his eyes to set them free of temptation - the open suitcase on the bed was beckoning him like a hungry mouth.

“I’m-I’m not going anywhere,” Valery stuttered, agitated, his feet fixed on the floor.

Boris straightened his back to look him in the eye. “What do you mean you’re not going anywhere?” he asked rolling a silk blue tie around his fingers. “The Central Committee needs to know what we’re doing here. I’m sick of shouting insults on the phone, and I’m sick of asking for a new phone each time I have to deal with those blockheads. You’re coming with me, they’ll listen to you, not me.”

Valery huffed out a bitter laugh. “Since when? You’re the one who’s pulling the strings around here, you’re the man in charge.”

“If I’m the man in charge you’ll do as I say,” Boris said roughly. “You’re coming to Moscow with me,” he insisted tucking the tie among his shirts and closed the suitcase. “Come on, Velikhov can replace you while you’re away.”

Valery widened his eyes in pure disbelief. “You’re dreaming," he said shaking his head, "I’m not leaving that incompetent in my place.”

Boris arched a brow, his lip twisting in a playful smile. “I assure you Velikhov is not what I’ve been dreaming of…”

The sudden heat that rose up Valery’s cheeks and reached the tips of his ears compensated Boris for all the nagging and resistance he had to put up with ever since the man barged into his hotel room. Having Valery around fully clothed, his baggy vest showing through white cloth, sweat pooling under his armpits, was bad enough. He should be hearing whimpers, sobs and sighs, his name stammered through endless moans, not shrieks of frustration, but that speechless mouth hanging open at the unexpected compliment was a clear sign he hadn’t lost the battle just yet. He took two steps toward Valery towering over him, stroking his loose hair into place with confident fingers.

“You don’t have to go back to your place when we get to Moscow,” he breathed hotly on his temple, brushing his nose and lips over a pulsing vein. “There are plenty of places that aren’t bugged.” He squeezed Valery’s shoulders, steadying him on his chest. “A hotel room I’ll book at the very last minute. A restaurant. My apartment. My _office.”_

“H-how do you know your office isn’t bugged…” Valery sighed into the folds of Boris’ neck as he rested his hands on the tall Ukrainian’s waist, kneading into the flesh as if trying to keep his fingers from sliding lower.

They both knew the walls had ears.

Boris cupped the back of his head breathing in the heat coming out of Valery’s pores. “I’ve worked in construction, remember?” he reassured him planting soft kisses on each bead of sweat, each vein, each freckle. “I know my office better than those idiots.”

“And your secretary?” Valery insisted fidgeting with the buckle of Boris’ belt, his fingers dragging up and down the length of his fly. “Shouldn’t she be listening outside?”

Boris caught Valery’s ear between his teeth, swiping his tongue over the tip until he felt a deep longing moan rising against his ribs.

“Not on Sundays…” he smiled.


	9. Kremlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: jealous Valery.

Valery had never ridden a Chaika before.

During his years at the Kurchatov he would hear rumours of colleagues who secretly owned a retired “Seagull”; sometimes his friends had friends who drove the luxurious automobile, but the legendary car was mostly reserved for high-ranking officials and Victory parades on Red Square. Sometimes a lustrous black beast would roar past him as he crossed Marshala Biryuzova or Dvortsovaya Boulevard, however he was too busy carrying books, documents or the day’s groceries to fully appreciate that unashamed symbol of privilege and prestige.

As fate would have it, he found himself riding the epitome of beauty and depravity the first day they arrived in Moscow to report to the Central Committee even if, once again, he was in no position to savour its grandiosity. The tiresome trip hadn’t done him any favours: he was sleepless, drowsy, head drooping on his chest while Boris tried to teach him the names and ranks of the people they’d be meeting.

The well-groomed statesman had insisted that they have a quick shower and a change of clothes at their hotel rooms before they headed to the Grand Kremlin Palace. It was July, it was hot, and Valery had more than welcomed the cooling sensation of water running down his sticky flustered skin; still, it wasn’t enough to keep him alert and even a dozen cups of coffee wouldn’t have helped.

“Valery,” snapped Boris with a slight shake of his shoulder, “are you even listening?”

 _“Hmmmm…?”_ the scientist hummed fluttering his eyes open, his cheek, crushed against Boris’ shoulder, a sleepy red.

He sat up blinking, grabbing his seat with both hands as soon as he realized he had been using Boris’ shoulder as a pillow, embarrassed but thankful that there was a dark screen separating them from the driver and his rear-view mirror.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” he stuttered, “yes I’m listening, you mentioned Slavksy, Shcherbitsky, Ligachev—”

 _“Ryzhkov,”_ Boris added briskly, “don’t forget Ryzhkov. He’s the Chairman of the Council of Ministers, my boss.”

“Your boss?”

“My boss,” Boris repeated with a nod as if Valery should have remembered such an important detail. “I answer only to him and Gorbachev.”

“Oh he’s ‘Gorbachev’ now…” Valery murmured absent-mindedly looking out of the window as the Chaika halted, waiting for the traffic light to turn green.

A skinny six-year-old boy holding his mother’s hand was standing on the pavement while he marveled at Boris’ luxurious steel mount, huge eyes shifting from the shiny handles to the tinted windows, oblivious of the two men inside. 

Boris leaned forward to wave at the child, getting no response. They were invisible.

“Yes,” he answered, “and we’ve been calling each other by our first names for as long as I can remember. He was calling me ‘Boris’ the first day we met in the conference room, in case you have forgotten.”

“Oh I haven’t forgotten anything from that day,” Valery confirmed with a hint of snark in his tone, his gaze fixed outside, his finger tapping on a stubbornly clenched jaw. “I remember your eyes piercing holes through me. I remember you lashing out at me in that helicopter for using your _name.”_

“Come on…” Boris cooed, his voice fading to a whisper, his massive fingers wrapping around Valery’s to squeeze them into the seat reassuringly. “You can’t be jealous of Mikhail. There are so many people I call by their first names.”

“Is that so?” Valery snapped without turning.

“Well…” Boris hesitated, “there’s also Kolya.”

“Kolya…?”

“Ryzhkov’s name,” Boris explained not without a tiny flush of embarrassment. “Nikolai.”

“Oh for _crying out loud,”_ Valery yelped exasperated, regretting his outburst the moment he realized the driver could be listening in.

Boris’ keen eyes picked up on his nervousness immediately. “Don’t worry, he’s not listening,” he assured him sliding a finger around his ear. “And I pay him enough to not talk even if he did.”

“I thought the KGB were everywhere,” Valery frowned. “There is the police we see and the police we don’t see. We’re not safe.”

“We _are_ safe,” Boris rasped thickly as he nudged his hips nearer closing the distance between them. “This tiny space between the tinted windows, separating us with a black screen from the rest of the world – this is ours,” he affirmed, his tongue darting out to smoothen half-open lips as he slipped a warm palm down Valery’s thigh. “This is us,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with need as he cupped Valery’s flushed cheek to bring him closer to his mouth. “This is now.”

There was gentleness and a newly-found intimacy in the way his tongue lapped at Valery’s, wet sounds filling the secluded space the two of them inhabited as their mouths caught each other’s whispered moans. Valery had been kissed before, so far back that it was hard to remember full names or exact circumstances, but if there was one thing he recalled, that was the awkward, unfulfilling aftertaste. He still couldn’t believe that a man as powerful, sharp and beautiful as the Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers would pick him out of a multitude of potential lovers, both male and female. What did he have to give in return? His studies, his position in the Institute, his intellect? He had always been aloof and standoffish choosing solitude over failure, relying on Inga and her soft purring to keep him company. Why would Boris choose him over a pair of blonde, obedient secretaries?

A light squeeze on his crotch brought him back to the present; Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina was too clever to not sense his doubts.

_You’re with me now._

The adrenaline, the excitement, the mere possibility of them getting to the Kremlin with their trousers ridiculously tented was making Valery’s hand shake as he reached for Boris’ groin and nervously yanked at his fly. Without breaking their kiss, Boris grabbed him by the wrist and pushed him away.

“You need this more than I do,” his hot breath skimmed over Valery’s cheek, making his hairs stand and his bulk strain against tight pants.

Boris kept massaging his thigh with expert fingers that climbed up the hardening crotch and palmed it lovingly, waiting for the tiniest response as if asking permission. Valery pulled away from the kiss, a string of spit joining their mouths, and glared down at Boris’ unmoving hand. When he looked back into the deep of the Ukrainian’s eyes with his jaw hanging loose, there was such dark yearning in his gaze that he didn’t even have to nod in approval: unthinking, he sprawled his knees open, inviting Boris’ hand to clasp and tease the sweetness of him, the heat of him.

Boris’ crooked smile was enough to indicate that his friend, his man, his _lover_ was in for a treat.

Valery fell back slamming his eyes closed, wiggling his hips into the seat like a cat curling up in someone’s lap. There was undeniable trust in his parted knees as he finally let another man touch him, explore him, fumble with his buckle and release him from the tightness of an unforgiving belt. He sighed in relief as the tension squeezing his belly since morning fell loose around his ample ass and was replaced by the sensual feel of the seat’s leather rubbing against his naked hips.

Boris’ hand creeped into his briefs and freed the red glistening thickness, his eyes devouring every inch of Valery’s exposed arousal. He circled the tiny opening with his thumb and gently pulled up and down the wrinkled folds of the other man’s frenulum until the first beads of precum spurted out of his slit. Valery let out a surprised gasp at the sight of his own spill, hips bucking up and down impatiently as he chased more of that sweet sensation into Boris’ fist, fingers digging into the sturdy shoulder next to him in an attempt to stifle his own needy whimper.

As if their bodies and minds were one and thirsting for the same thing -hard and fast completion- Boris picked up the pace.

The double sensation of hands furiously milking his cock while eagerly working his testicles turned Valery’s mouth dry; he ran a thirsty tongue over his lip, a sharp throaty moan escaping his lungs as he felt a new, harsher squeeze and a tug around his swollen crown. He opened his eyes wide to witness his cock move in and out of Boris’ obscenely large fist with such frenetic speed that he barely noticed the unblinking stare fixed on his face. The man knew what he was doing, he thought numbly as he panted for air. As if impressed by the unexpected volume of Valery’s sac, Boris bit his lip adoringly squeezing around his angry redness - after all this was the first time the politician was seeing him naked and shamelessly erect.

Valery knew Boris would gladly eat him down to his balls in the back seat of his pricey Chaika while rushing through the busy streets of Moscow, never mind that they had a meeting in exactly twenty-three minutes and fifty-two seconds; still, a prestigious politician would probably not want to stain his expensive jacket with his colleague’s load. Besides, Boris could easily finish him only with his massive palms and that was more than enough for a man who hadn’t been touched since youth, a hermit who had found pleasure in his own hand more times than he’d care to admit.

“Oh… _B-Borya_ —AH…!” he sobbed as the strong fist tightened mercilessly around him, “I’m gonna—oh be careful I’m gonna c— _uuuuh…”_

“Come on, baby, come for me,” Boris urged him, his hot breath tickling his ear as the movements of his wrist got more and more frantic.

Valery felt two fingers digging into his perineum while he was being stroked up and down, up and down, faster and faster and oh _God_ nobody had brought him so easily to his peak and so quickly, and now he was getting too close to the sweet end, too damn—

 _“Oh_ Boris oh fuck I’m—”

A gasp, a shock of unparalleled pleasure and then he was --

_there_

\-- panting as he exploded generously, uncontrollably all over Boris’ thick fingers who was still holding him upright to keep him safe and dry. Or maybe he just wanted to relish the sight of Valery’s milky load dribbling down his cock, slicking them both; Valery didn’t know which one it was and, with that huge orgasmic wave peaking and swallowing him whole, he just didn’t care.

With a long satisfied grunt he sank back into his seat, arms collapsing on his sides, tongue swiping over a half-open mouth that was begging to be kissed again, to be filled again. Boris, evidently in need of the same sensations, leaned in for a long filthy kiss sucking on a plump lower lip before pulling a silk handkerchief out of his pocket. He wiped Valery clean, rubbing each crease, each wrinkle of his softening member, and carefully folded the white cloth before putting it back into his pocket. Valery was too drunk by the aftershocks to even realize he was mumbling utter nonsense as he stroked Boris’ back gratefully, thank you’s and I love you’s and terms of endearment that would probably bring him absolute embarrassment if Boris was cruel enough to remind him on a later, saner moment.

For now, the politician seemed as happy as the man he had pushed beyond the edge of bliss even if he had to take deep slow breaths to calm himself down; they were only five minutes away from the Kremlin’s parking lot when a traffic officer waved at them, unaware of what had taken place behind those smoked glass windows.

Boris took another handkerchief out of his pocket.

“No more drowsiness, alright?” he said softly as he wiped his own fingers and examined his perfect nails. “And no more jealousy fits, not when you _know_ I’d fuck your brains out as soon as look at you.”

Valery huffed out a surprised laugh as he tucked himself back into his pants, his face beaming with building confidence; Boris had just proven that he could be passionate and reckless and capable of anything – just to smother his complaints and make him happy _._

Bewildered and just a bit amused, he shook his head peeking out of the window at the guard who was saluting them as they entered the parking lot. The Politburo meeting was about to start and they both knew they had to quickly put their serious faces on.

As they got out of the car, he refused to look at Boris for he knew that all sentiment, all passion was now gone from his gaze.

Still, the esteemed statesman wasn’t willing to let go of his sharp wit, not even as he faced the stern arches of the Grand Kremlin Palace’s entrance, like raised marble brows staring at them questioningly.

“Hopefully you’ll stay awake now.”

Valery didn’t see that cheeky smile, but he heard it.


	10. Kolya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Valoris kissed like real Soviet men.

“Is he really _that_ special?” Valery wondered straightening an exceedingly long tie that was threatening to choke him since he entered the Kremlin conference room that morning.

He winced at the feel of it; it was one of the ties Boris had bought for him ordering over the phone suits to match his eyes and shirts that complemented his pallid complexion. Sweet, generous Boris who was now too busy, too giddy, too engrossed in his conversation with “Kolya” to even notice Valery’s absence - let alone one insignificant crooked tie.

Valery couldn’t help but seethe at the memory; as soon as they entered the Kremlin Palace of Congresses Boris was greeted by his boss with a “fraternal kiss”. His breath hitched when Nikolai Ivanovich Ryzhkov squeezed Boris’ arm to draw him closer and claim his mouth. Valery thought that was a ritual long forgotten, as obsolete as Brezhnef himself, but apparently the prime minister didn’t mind reminding everyone in that room that he and Boris were close. Valery would have ignored the gesture had the embrace not ended in a swift yet intimate kiss, sealed by Ryzhkov’s tongue flicking out just enough to get a taste of the tall Ukrainian’s lips.

_And to think Boris was barking out his name smashing the telephone a few weeks ago._

With more contempt than curiosity Valery inspected “Kolya”: for a politician he was annoyingly perfect, from his cap-toe Italian shoes to his starched collar, dark brown hair brushed back, slick with brillantine and framed by temples with hard-to-miss touches of silver that did nothing to diminish Valery’s uneasiness. Not to mention that strong chin of his.

He breathed out the tightening of his chest; he knew he had to distract himself otherwise he was in for a long and uninteresting evening. His eyes passed over a crowd he hardly recognized with the exception of Anatoly Petrovich Alexandrov, head of the Kurchatov Institute and president of the Soviet Academy of Sciences. His mentor.

Alexandrov waved at him. Valery felt compelled to respond with a nod even if his feet remained planted on the floor; he was in no mood to catch up with friends and colleagues. He was even beginning to question his reasoning behind attending that reception after the tiresome Politburo meeting, wondering what he was doing among those bureaucrats - party officials whose names were as elusive and indifferent to him as their high status and fake smiles. He had no intention of wasting brain cells on them even if Boris had tried to teach him everything he needed to know a few hours back in his Chaika - among other things.

Valery clicked his tongue searching in vain for peace and calm in a sip of Abrau-Durso; if a hard and fast release was Boris’ idea of emptying his mind and helping him memorize names, it was an utter failure. He had enjoyed the lesson and would gladly repeat it, the outcome not so much. Besides, a hasty orgasm in the back seat of a luxurious car could never compensate for the horrifying sensation that he was becoming invisible in a room full of strangers.

“You’re not telling me you don’t remember who Volodymyr Vasylyovych Shcherbitsky is…” Boris had grumbled under his breath when they were entering the Kremlin conference room a few hours ago. “I just told you.”

“Who is--”

“He’s the leader of the Communist Party of Ukraine, Valery,” Boris hissed striding into the room, eyes widening with exasperation and panic. “For the love of God, _do not_ embarrass me.”

 _Shcherbitsky, all right,_ Valery had made a mental note mumbling that tongue twister of a name again and again until Boris whispered a second name to him, pointing discreetly at another official across the room.

By the time they sat at the conference table and Gorbachev’s aide served them steaming cups of coffee, Valery had forgotten everything.

Still, he was getting better at it. Clutching his glass of wine, he spotted a face in the crowd whose name was much easier to remember: Mikhail Shchadov, the remarkably young Minister of Coal with the distinctive honey brown locks and the reserved smile with whom he had exchanged a few words that went beyond courtesy. Shchadov seemed pleasant enough even if a bit awkward among all those older men, with more than a few good stories to share from his first meeting with the mining crew chief, the feisty Andrei Glukhov whose name (and rotund anatomy) Valery knew all too well.

The scientist had wondered what happened to Glukhov and his men after they dug that tunnel underneath the reactor. First he called the Pripyat hospital, then he contacted hospital number six in Moscow, and when he found no trace of the stocky crew chief he turned to his last resort: Boris.

Instead of an answer, the statesman had shaken his head, his message as clear as his steely blue gaze: _state secret, Valery._ The Press would be after the miners if they were so easy to find, demanding answers from the victims themselves. Who needed files, statistics or an exact number of casualties in the face of nuclear catastrophe? Certainly not the State, not Paradise. Paradise was perfect.

Valery felt like throwing up and the glass in his hand wasn’t helping. He was sick of their secrets, sick of their pointless Politburo meetings and belated measures and accusations, sick of that obnoxious politician who was monopolizing Boris’ attention as he flashed perfect teeth and confident little giggles at the one man in the room Valery had feelings for. Uncaring of his insecurities, Boris and “Kolya” leaned toward each other, whispering like old buddies with too many shared memories to count, their foreheads almost touching as the prime minister’s inaudible joke made Boris’ shoulders shake richly.

“Nothing special about him,” Valery repeated to himself, a mantra that was failing to put his mind at ease as he swallowed a bitter mouthful of red wine. “He’s shorter than Boris. And that smile - too obvious. Generic.”

He realized he had been staring like a gawking schoolgirl when “Kolya” peeked back at him over Boris’ shoulder, a smug smile and a little nod acknowledging his presence. Boris turned to look for whatever had caught Premier Ryzhkov’s attention.

_Fucking hell._

Valery toyed with his wine shifting from one foot to the other as the two men (the two _friends_ ) approached with large steps, champagne spilling from their tall glasses. Boris’ cheeks were sleek and flushed (just how _much_ had he drunk already?) and his usually charming smile had turned into what looked more like a drunken grimace. Valery was surprised he had fallen in love with the man in the first place.

“Valery!” Boris yawped opening his arms. “Let me introduce you to--”

“Premier Ryzhkov,” the scientist cut him off turning to the other man. “Pleased to meet you,” he said briskly, eyes fluttering behind thick lenses to avoid the piercing gaze of Boris’ boss.

Nikolai Ryzhkov’s lip curled cheekily. “You can call me Kolya,” he said, his voice dripping honey as he stretched out a perfectly manicured hand.

Valery pushed his glasses back on his nose. His handshake was curt, obligatory.

“I hope you didn’t mind my suggestions at the meeting,” Ryzhkov said with a sheepish grin. “And I hope I wasn’t too harsh on you and professor Alexandrov. Us politicians sometimes need to pretend we know everything when we actually know nothing.”

“You were stating what was already in those reports,” Valery said icily. “We were responsible for designing and creating RBMK reactors while we were against buying technologies and equipment abroad. It would be fair to say we were too proud to ask for help.”

“…Or too arrogant to not have a monopoly on nuclear energy.” Ryzhkov’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “ _Safe and sturdy like samovars,”_ he added, not without a hint of reprimand, “ _safe enough to be installed on Red Square.”_

A deep wrinkle broke between Valery’s brows: Ryzhkov was quoting Alexandrov.

He straightened his back swallowing the poignant words, his scientific pride irrevocably hurt. _“Considering the strain on the country’s fuel balance and the growing role of atomic energy,”_ he recited as if standing in an auditorium, _“delays in launching new reactor units are inadmissible in the future.”_

 _“_ Oh,” Ryzhkov chuckled, eyes cold and unsmiling despite the seductive baring of his teeth, “you’re quoting me, how amusing. I must say I’m flattered.”

“I read the report you gave the congress a few months before the accident,” Valery said with little concern for his accusatory tone. “Viktor Bryukhanov was forced to complete the reactor in five years whereas the construction cycle of a nuclear power plant is _seven_ years. He wasn’t even a nuclear engineer. He was a turbine specialist.”

Boris’ eyes darted from one man to the other.

“He could have said no,” Ryzhkov shrugged taking a sip from his champagne, his gaze following a blonde curvaceous waitress passing with a canapé tray. “But I guess he was too eager to get his gold star of a Hero of Socialist Labour.”

“No,” Valery insisted as he saw from the corner of his eye Boris clenching his fists nervously. He couldn’t resist taking a little revenge on the man he loved, the man who had been ignoring him all evening for the sake of politics and old acquaintances. “If he hadn’t fallen in line, he would have earned a reprimand at best,” he said crisply. “The next step would be losing his Party card. His job.”

Ryzhkov’s lip suppressed an angry twitch, his stare icy, almost dead. “Occupational hazards, professor Legasov,” he replied. “This is why some of us become politicians and others choose to be power plant managers instead.”

Boris interrupted them with a little cough in his fist, a gesture he had undoubtedly copied from the General Secretary himself. “Maybe we should leave all that for the next meeting we have with the Central Committee, what do you say?” he suggested forcing a polished smile as he patted the two men on their backs. “This is no time for pointing fingers.”

Valery shuddered at the condescending touch and cursed himself for not daring to pull away. Appearances had to be kept, he thought bitterly, they were still in the Kremlin Palace after all, with so many eyes on them. Why a nation obsessed with equality, the death of aristocracy and the praise of the proletariat would call this place a “palace” was beyond him. It was all a lie, he realized, just like the politeness of the man measuring him with his haughty gaze, that stranger who seemed to be enjoying Boris straightening the jacket on his shoulder a little too much.

Indeed, Ryzhkov’s face was beginning to soften thanks to Boris’ soothing touch. “You’re right,” he sighed, “we should be enjoying our champagne, not fighting. It’s enough that I had Misha shouting in my face this whole week,” he mumbled in his glass, his eyes shifting around the room lest someone should hear him.

 _Oh poor you,_ Valery almost blurted out, his lip threatening to twist in disdain until he noticed Boris’ forbidding stare.

The gray-haired politician swiftly turned to his old friend putting on a mask of friendliness. “Does he still call you in the middle of the night?” he teased.

“Gorbachev? Oh no, you’re the only one who enjoys that luxury,” Ryzhkov answered promptly, causing Valery to sink his teeth in his lip so deep that he tasted copper. “There aren’t many people who can keep me up at night waiting for the phone to ring,” he boasted, his fingers fanning out over Boris’ arm. “You kept me on my toes during your first days in Chernobyl, Borya, and not only because I needed constant updates on the situation,” he added brushing off lint from the back of Boris’ shoulder with long calculated strokes.

Valery, with an astonished brow rising so high it almost disappeared into his hairline, suddenly felt the urge to chew someone’s head off.

“I was very worried when you were refusing to go to Kiev for treatment,” Ryzhkov explained, his concerned tone similar to that of a caring mother.

Or a lover.

“Well,” Boris said moving closer to Valery to cup the nape of his neck, “since professor Legasov wasn’t going, I wasn’t going either. We didn’t trust anyone else to do the job during our absence and I wouldn’t dream of leaving him alone in that inferno.”

Valery’s breathing stilled.

_Don’t you fucking touch me._

Ryzhkov’s keen eyes glinted at Boris’ intimacy and Valery’s sudden immobility. He hummed studying them both, an amused smile broadening on his lips.

“I do believe that only men who know how to take care of each other can truly take care of millions,” he stated with a look that revealed envy and admiration in equal measure. “People will never forget the work you’re doing there.” He gave a pretentiously humble shrug. “Hopefully my trivial contributions from afar and the endless midnight phone calls we exchanged will get a tiny side note in history books,” he said patting Boris on the back.

Valery raised his chin, ready to spit out venom. “Oh, I’m certain everyone will remember the man who sent us a lunar rover that could withstand up to 2,000 roentgen,” he flared, his voice quivering with suppressed indignation, “when the gamma radiation on the roof was reaching 12,000 roentgen. Truly an informed decision.”

Ryzhkov turned to him, all warmth gone from his gaze. “No,” he shot back, the corner of his lip twitching into a wicked smirk, “I’m the man who sent Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina to clean up _your_ mess when I could have kept him to myself.” He jiggled his empty glass. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I will have my next drink with people who are not responsible for blowing up reactors.”

He straightened his tie and headed for the buffet.

Boris watched him walk away, his mouth gaping helplessly, before turning to glower at Valery, every trace of drunkenness gone from his face.

“What the _hell_ was that?”

Valery pressed his lips together, his chest heaving as he struggled to control his breathing; he wasn’t going to let him win this time.

“Whatever you want to tell me,” he rumbled, “you can tell me when you’re back in Chernobyl. I’m leaving.”

“Valery, what--”

“ _HE KISSED YOU.”_

Boris froze, his eyes bulging as if he had been slapped in the face. The next moment he was howling with laughter.

 _“That?_ Kolya is a Brezhnef enthusiast, pay no attention, he’s old-fashioned like that.”

Valery’s jaw slacked open. “… He swept his fucking tongue over your lips,” he hissed, his gaze shooting flaming daggers.

Boris drowned the last huffs of laughter into his fist. “Did he?” he said. “I didn’t notice.”

Valery wondered if the beads of sweat running down Boris' temples was the alcohol in his veins or his guilty secret finally coming to the light. “Maybe you should ask him,” he snarled, “his memory seems to be better than yours. How come you never mentioned those midnight phone calls?”

“Valery, I’ve known the man for years,” Boris said rubbing his forehead as if to avert a splitting headache. “We worked together when I was presiding over the development of oil and gas industries in Siberia. You cannot be serious.”

“Oh I’m _very_ serious,” Valery replied.

Boris stood beside him with eyes fixed on Ryzhkov who seemed much more relaxed now that he was chatting with the ministers of Coal and Medium Machine Building. “You’re irresistible when you’re jealous, you know that?” he rasped in Valery’s ear running a hand down his back, his thick fingers resting dangerously close to the other man's hips. “And you haven’t even touched me yet...”

“No,” Valery murmured feeling Boris’ hot breath against his skin, his voice shaking as his body wavered between rage and need. “No. I’m done here. Have fun with your ‘Kolya’, I’m going back.”

He pulled out of Boris’ grasp and fixed his tie as people started getting curious about the deputy minister and the academician who were standing a bit too close to each other.

He couldn’t wait to go back to the hotel and get rid of that horrible noose around his neck.

He couldn’t wait to fly back to the most dangerous place on earth, work himself to death and forget it all.

“You’re being a child,” Boris insisted, frustrated.

“I’m not the one who wants everything for himself,” Valery quipped fumbling with his pockets to find the keys - until he remembered that he had been brought there in Boris’ car, not his.

Boris’ mouth hung open, his tongue too numb from the drink and the shock to form a decent reply.

Valery balanced on his heels; he couldn’t help finding a tinge of satisfaction in Boris’ helplessness even if the desperate look in his eyes was killing him inside. He threw him one last glance before leaving, hoping Boris could see through his act and stop him, give up on everyone just to make him change his mind.

But apparently that task was meant for someone else.

“We’re headed for the Ukraina Hotel for a little snack with Misha and the others, will you join us?” Ryzhkov’s casual tone was heard over the chattering guests.

_Him again._

They turned like clockwork and spoke simultaneously.

“No!” Valery snapped.

_“YES!”_ Boris barked drowning his voice as he grabbed his wrist behind his back and squeezed. _Hard._

The dimples on the prime minister’s cheeks deepened in a boyish smile. “Good,” he said, his face beaming with relief. _“Good!..._ We’ll see you guys there.”

The two friends followed him around with their eyes. As soon as he exited the room, Boris threw Valery a guilty look.

“You don’t say no to the prime minister, Valery,” he muttered with an apologetic shrug.

The scientist responded with a harsh smile. “I guess that sums up your whole relationship, doesn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big hug to Drunkardonjunkyard and Fmasha-l for their Colin Firth-as-NIkolai Ryzhkov headcanon and for the "soviet kiss" idea, and also hugs to Litttlesilkworm for all the info on Ryzhkov. Much appreciated.


End file.
